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4. Dangerous Lit-er-a-toor

I imagined it sitting in a dank dungeon. Above it, hanging from a frayed wire, a single bulb threw ghastly shadows. They called it...The Electric Paddle.

The Electric Paddle! The very name was enough to shoot a thrill into you, setting your eight-year-old bottom a' tingle. Nobody knew much about it, except the older kids. They didn't say much except that it was in the principal's office. I tried to imagine this sinister marriage of science and social control. I figured the thing was built like a fan. I assumed the paddles (or - shudder - blades) were turned inward, i.e., rump-ward. I expected them to use it on me! That's because I just couldn't seem to keep from mixing the business of education with the pleasure of comic books.

Yes, young 'uns, as hard as it might be to believe now, to public school teachers of forty odd years ago, funnybooks were no laughing matter. Sometimes I come upon lists of disciplinary problems from the Good Old Days: whispering, running in the hall, popping gum. Somehow, bringing comic books to school never seems to make the list. I'm amazed at the omission. When I attended Dawson-Bryant Elementary during the sixties, two incontrovertible facts held sway:

Fact #1: Kids read comics. They read them. They traded them with each other. They brought them to school and sometimes suffered their confiscation by an irate educator. That's because of...

Fact #2: Comics and teachers were natural enemies.

My first lesson in this animosity came in the third grade. One of my classmates had brought a shiny new copy of a Batman 80-Page Giant. Somehow or other, I persuaded the classmate to let me look at it. This was at the end of recess. As class resumed, I was sitting at my desk looking at the comic. Mrs. Hesson, a twenty-nine year veteran of the teaching trenches who knew the Enemy when she saw it, swept the book off my desk. She stood before the class with Batman in her upraised hand. "This sort of lit-er-a-toor," she intoned, "is not acceptable at school. If you care to read this sort of lit-er-a-toor at home, that is not my business. But you must not bring such lit-er-a-toor to school!"

I was embarrassed. As my cheeks burned red, I scorned my teacher and her high-falutin' speech. I remember thinking, "It's literature, you mean old lady, not 'lit-er-a-toor.'" But I suffered in silence. Nowadays, of course, it would be different. We'd tell our parents and our parents would sick the ACLU on Miz Hesson faster than Miz Hesson could blink. In those days, however, parents aided and abetted Authority. Indeed, my parents told me, "If you get it at school, you'll get it at home!" So Teacher ruled like Captain Bligh and we knew better than to challenge her.

Three years later, though, I challenged her - with humiliating results. I was in the sixth grade with a deep crush on my teacher, Mrs. Layman. At the time, I thought this thirty-something mother of two was the most beautiful woman in the world. It was a love that, to a certain extent, seemed requited. Mrs. Layman noticed me. She appreciated my abilities in oral interpretation (I got to read The Wonderful Flight to The Mushroom Planet to our class) and my knowledge of history. I can still hear her saying, "That Gary's got a mind like a steel trap!" She was bright, approachable, a woman of great good sense... except - altogether now! - where comic books were concerned.

Mrs. Layman had already warned me about producing such material in class. She'd told me that, if I had comics with me, if I knew what was good for me, I wouldn't let her see them. Unfortunately, at age 11, I didn't know any better what was good for me than I had at age 8. The bell rang for the end of the class day. I ran for my locker where I'd stashed an issue of Jimmy Olsen. No sooner had I pulled the thing out than the voice of the woman I loved spoke sharply from the other end of the room: "Gary! Bring that up here now." I trudged toward her desk, the chronicles of Olsen hanging limply from my hand. With great economy of movement, the woman I adored pulled it from my hand, sidestepped to the trash can, and with one swift jerk tore my comic book in half. She dropped the remains of my rebellion into the can. And that was that. Teacher had spoken - in Layman's terms, you might say.

As the song says, love hurts. But it also bears all things. With time, I forgave Miz Layman her crime against love and cub reporters. I guess that's what gave me so much pleasure later on in carting an armload of contraband down to Mr. Beals' office. The comics weren't mine, of course. I'd learned that lesson. These belonged to a boy named Chuck, whose desk was absolutely stuffed with the offending pamphlets. At the end of the school day after Chuck had left, I happened to notice his stash. Like a good snitch, I mentioned it to Mrs. Layman. She directed me to take the comics to Mr. Beals' office. I was only too happy to do so. Contrary to my expectations, however, Mr. Beals didn't get angry or upset at the sight of the comics I stacked on his desk. With a bemused smile, he asked, "He had all these?" A moment later, this man - the guardian of minds, the champion of authority - was sitting with part of the pile in his lap, leafing through pages. He seemed to forget I was there. So, at age 11, I learned a new lesson about the vagaries of adult behavior. (I also soon learned what a bad idea it is to betray one's classmate. But that's another story.)

One other memory from Dawson-Bryant cries to be shared. You know, though, memory is so darned subjective! I'm not exactly sure whether what I'm about to tell you is what I actually saw or not. Maybe I dreamed it. If I did, all I can say is it's the most vivid dream I've ever had.

There was a room off the cafeteria/gym. Normally, they stored equipment in there - basketballs, volleyball net, etc. On one occasion, however, I glanced through the open door into that room and saw something amazing, incredible. It was something to awaken the worst dreams of avarice. I still regret not obeying the siren call, letting it pull me into that room, drop me to my knees and thrust my sweating hands into the pile...of comic books. I'd never seen so many in one place in all my life. They weren't stacked; they lay decadently about, sprawled like the whore of Babylon arrayed in red, yellow, and blue. My trained eye quickly noted how many of the titles represented my beloved Superman line.

Why didn't I answer the call? Why didn't I enter the room and plunge into the pile? Maybe I did. I honestly don't remember. I'm a little like the alcoholic Ray Milland who lost that weekend in the film classic. Just the smell of three score comic books in a little room was enough to addle an addict like me. More than likely, though, I went into the room, probably opened a comic, but was warned away by the bark of Mr. Beals (this was a couple years before I took Chuck's stash to him). Undoubtedly, he was behind this haul of hauls, the confiscation to end all confiscations. Who was the culprit or culprits? When and how did the raid occur? My questions are shrouded in mystery and desire. Forty-some years later, I still lust after that pile of funnybooks.

My, how things have changed! These days, I hardly ever see a kid with a comic book. Occasionally, I see a child in the comics shop I frequent. Invariably, he's with a parent who, more often than not, is constantly telling him to put that down and keep quiet while Daddy looks for a comic book. Sigh. We're a long way from the spinner rack.

Naturally, if kids aren't buying them, they're no longer bringing them to school. I don't know how teachers feel about comics these days. I suspect many of them don't even realize the little magazines are still being produced. In any event, they've got a lot more to worry about than kids bringing comics to class, to say nothing of whispering, running in the halls or popping gum. Now they're afraid - terribly afraid - of some kid bringing a gun to school, running in the hall with it, maybe popping it off at a fellow student.

The situation just drips with irony. Back in the day, many teachers and parents were suspicious of comics at best, censorious of them at worst. I assume this was on account of the work of Dr. Wertham and others. You've no doubt read about the do-gooders who saw illiteracy, disrespect of authority, and juvenile delinquency on every lurid page. Interesting how it all came out, isn't it? We've conquered funnybooks in school only to see illiteracy skyrocket, disrespect rule, and delinquency become the order of the day.

Maybe it's time to bring back The Electric Paddle. Or even comic books.

Don't miss the next thrill-packed adventure: My Pal, George.

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4. Dangerous Lit-er-a-toor

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